


Tell me a story

by FamRoyalty



Series: its all a leap of faith [1]
Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Civilians Trying To Live Their Lives, Friendly Neighbourhood Spiderman, No Beta- we all suffer, Post-Canon, Spider-Man Interacting with New Yorkers, You Know Who Dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FamRoyalty/pseuds/FamRoyalty
Summary: the world is too big and too bitter to believe in superhero comics, but it's New York where poor men become something larger and be legends like god wielding thunder or a dark knight in  guarding.its new york, and red and blue are too familiar and something your children see as natural as the blue sky, because yes, of course spiderman will always be there.No matter the face underneath.





	1. Lucy

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [your love would be too much](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17290049) by [hawkeyelover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkeyelover/pseuds/hawkeyelover). 
  * Inspired by [the family brooklyn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17619248) by [tactfulGnostalgic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tactfulGnostalgic/pseuds/tactfulGnostalgic). 
  * Inspired by [you're the sunflower](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17218721) by [dippingdots](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dippingdots/pseuds/dippingdots). 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was just a girl with little buns on her head like strong princess lea, she begged and begged her mom to braid it, and licking the last bits of ice cream from her fingertips.
> 
> That is where the almost tragedy began.

When Lucy was five she was almost killed by a mad driver who slid off the road, maybe had too much to drink, or the traffic had finally claimed his sanity, into the sidewalk of her old neighborhood.

She was just a girl with little buns on her head like strong princess lea, she begged and begged her mom to braid it, and finally relented, and licking the last bits of ice cream from her fingertips.

This is where the almost tragedy began.

She was digging through the cracks in the pavement, squished in between the two old buildings, where all the nasty bugs camped out in winter, and she saw a movie where space was real and a princess was in trouble, but like mama she huffed and did it herself.

Her single mother told her that good girls don't wonder in the street, and if she's good she'll get her favorite dessert after lunch. So with a crumble up dollar, she pulled her shorts up, and marched to the corner store and bought herself a ice cream, like a real grown lady. 

She remembers the moss from the red brick building, the cool shadow of the building covering her, and her ice cream cone done and finished. Strawberry flavor, where even now, she could roll her tongue and feel the artifical sweetness, sharp and command ready at her tastebuds.

She heard the sounds of tires squealing on the ground, and maybe the neighbors left their window open because she only heard those sounds on movies. She tumble out, trying to figure out the sound, the sunrays skinning into her skin, and --

She could only whip around, hear her mother scream from above, sharp and loud, too inhuman, set her heart racing, her blood elevated, and her hairs on her arms rise up in some defense --

 

And suddenly she's flying like the movies, where you made a wish and the little fairy would whip out their wand and tickle a dance. There's arms around her, securing her like a seatbelt on a rollercoaster, and she shrieked and _laughs_.

The adrenaline possibly made the sky bluer, or the softer and further away than it seemed, but she's soaring and she's touching the sky like her mom said she would.

The man is made of crayons. She realize.

The color of blue and red, some white and black. He's holding on the rope, and when she finally touches the ground with feather soft landing, she almost collapses with how shaky her legs are.

It's the adrenaline rush, she tries to convise herself many years later, when she's wary and hungry but her fingers ache as she writes another story, but when she was at that moment, she wasn't afraid, she could hardly stay still because she just tocuhed the baby blue sky, and sang with the sun and peted the soft clouds.

And who wouldn't be trying to contain that energy after you flew the sky?

Her mother grips her tight, but she invites it, glad to be in comfort, but the man is already leaving, her mother spilling words and thank you's and the man only shakes his head and apologizes that she had to go through that.

Maybe that's what stuck to her.

How selfless he was in that specific moment, forever ingrained into her memory that its as common as her name and it rings just as clear and right. Her mom bust into tears and thanks him endlessly.

Years after that accident, when her mother once broke down one night, told her how _exhausted_ she was that day, working with no one to fall back to, and how she couldn't get down the flight of stairs fast enough, she can only pray for sleep after thinking what could have happen if a man made from crayons didn't sling by that day.

She told Lucy how she would only draw in those specific colors for weeks without end, how she absolutely _refused_ to sleep, preceding to stay up all night just to catch a glimspe of colors through her binoculars. How her fascination of flight and the sky took off, how she walked the stage, and took her diploma and went to NASA to touch the stars.

And when the news came on that dusk, when the sun settled, like a fortold signed of a old era, and the moon hung on its place, she doesn't really know how to feel.

That's a lie.

She left cheated and angry at the world, taking a man too young, and she wonders what she'll do, because the only image she has of him is high in the air, blood pumping through her ears, and the deep laughter that bloomed. Spiderman to her was not one laid on the ground, but rather high above in the buildings from sunrise to sunset, guarding and listening.

She realizes hours later, how blue his eyes were, like the same color of the day she was saved, and the golden blonde of the sun were stuck on his hair, that she realize a revelation.

Spider-Man, a man made out of crayons, seem to her like a man who can fly and reach the sky, while they were stuck to the ordinary ground.

But he un-stuck her, and maybe there's some hope left for the wary ones, wandering what will happen to this city they call home.

Because through the cracks, and the windows, you can catch a glimpse of color, and another man made of color, bright and messy, young, but alive is out there. So she scoffs at the news, spiderman isn't dead yet. The mask lives on, even when the man behind it dies.

And watching the news is one thing, but seeming the boy, not yet man, sling through the glass buildings to reflect the colors and blue sky, she can't help but echo the same feeling as Peter Parker did.

New York will be just fine under its new friendly Spider-Man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very tired.


	2. Michael, hold your breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When michael was sixteen, he climed the rusty fence boarding the building, climbed the countless stairs and held his breath, and counted to ten.
> 
> And he stepped off the ledge.

Creaking doors, and the distant constant sounds of New york feels so. . . Free.

When michael was eighteen, he climed the rusty fence boarding the building, climbed the countless stairs and held his breath, and counted to ten.

No one really knows just how thrilling it can be, the impudent knowledge that you are going to _die_ , leave behind a mass of flesh and bones and nerves to rot, and nothing but the fingertips at the morge, that everything will be gone soon --

 _One_.

He remembers his grandpa, no matter the fusses of his mother when she snapped called him a liar, grandpa with grey hair and soft eyes.

A big voice that makes you think of old tv commericals, that had a certain softness to it, and a toothy smiles that brought his red cheeks upwards. He had big hands that would lift him from the ground, and put him above his shoulders, like he belonged with the clouds.

 

 _Two_.

 

He has a brother, he knows that, when his mom is shooting up her arm, he was six, and instead of eating banana taffee he knew to call the police if white foam started to come from her mouth. He had a PB&J sandwich mushed into his fist, because of the terror when she started to laugh at someone in the room.

That's how he learns that his brother's name is Jerome and he ran away when his mom found out he was gay.

 

 _Three_.

 

He doesn't have a father, that's okay, because most don't, and when hes sitting alone in the creaking swingset, he can feel his bones ache. The sky is pale, and the clouds look like they been stichted when the other kids started to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

Hes too young to know what true age feels like, but like any other kid he knows when to grow up. When rosey cheeks turn into skin, with wary eyes. But maybe he wonders what it'll feel like if his brother would swing in and get him _out --_

 

_Four._

 

He seen spiderman, once when he by the window, the old dusty cushions, a mere step to see the city on front of them when a flash of color appeared on his vision. But he isn't special, news reports, cameras, videos, but _he_ saw him.

Blue, strong and silent, red powerful and loud, white with no judgment to pass, and the black line almost poetically metaphors for his morals. He was a kid eating stale cereal, but when spiderman swung around, flash of colors moving --

He wanted nothing more than to be spiderman.

 

 _Five_.

 

Some days were better than others. Yeah, he could stand in the edge of a building, stand and breathe. The cold air, and his burning lungs reminded his heartbeat drumming away that he was alive.

He would think of the homeless shelters and wonder if they were still good to go, because the man there had too curious eyes and it made him _sick_.

 

 _Six_. 

 

And sometimes being alive isn't enough. Tell me young explore, how smart are you? Enough to graduate at top, where could you leave your mark? He is no artist, no poet, no worker to build something that would last decades. 

 _Seven_.

 

He's just Michael. 

 

 _Eight_.

 

He liked a girl once. Pastel hair and dizzy smile.

 

 _Nine_.

 

Will you remember me? 

 

_Ten --_

 

"Hey buddy, whatcha doing all the way up here?" A voice grabs him and violently throws him like a twister to the present. 

There's a color, and its burning his eyes, why is he here? He seen the news reports, he knows he is a mere number to the higher ones, but he doesn't matter compare the the Big Apple when spiderman saves them from another doomday. _Why are you here?_

He wants to ask. Jesus Christ, he wants to demand to a jury, why he is wasting his time, instead of saving children that could be future presidents, fighting monsters, and _saving people. **Why**?_

Instead, his throat is clogged up by the failed words, chewing and clawing at his closed up walls. He shrugs and maybe Spiderman knows better and leave him be. _Let me rest,_ his soul would never whisper, because he is already dooming New York from keeping their hero _here_ instead of out there.

Why is he spending his time talking to a dead man than to save someone else? 

"Want to talk about it?" He kinda reminds him of his janitor. A blizzard image of spiderman mobbing up the floor pops up, but only because the janitor would always speak to him and asks how the day was going.

"It's fine, but Spider-Man, why aren't you saving people?" He closed his eyes, and his deepest part of himself is clawing at himself for putting his words in just way. Of course spiderman was busy, he is always busy saving new york from monsters and freaks.

But spiderman chuckles, and titls his head like a bird he saw at english class instead of listening-- "I am."

No one can really tell someone how it felt to completely break down. Its different for everyone, because some will rage, and rage with blood on coating their tongue, while others will hold on tight that will leave behind bruises and some will hold their breath to the bitter end. But michael did was barrow his weeping face in his hands and mumble incoherent words into the cold air.

When spiderman wrapped his arms around him, silent and stoic, that's all the mere support he needed at that moment, and yeah, its not a solution to a lifetime, but it's more than the people below them would ever offer.

No, I can't tell you the whispered words, spoken under their tongue like children at the playground sharing a secret, but that's only between two souls.

Michael himself doesn't remember much, just the aching feelings and emotions, the touches and the fragile peace he was content in. He knows he talked nonsense, mere facts like how he saw him once in tv when he was younger and wanted nothing more than to be him, or what he had for breakfast.

(Even after four years later, when his love of his life gasp in mute horror, he will learn that--)

He doesn't remember the spefics but the soft words that stuck to his soul, like the stickers the dentist gave him and no matter how much you scratched at it, it'll never leave the frige. It was soft and it was enough.

_Sometimes, you gotta take a leap of faith._

(And when his love of his love of his life gasps in mute horror, he will learn that Spiderman's name was Peter Parker and he was just barely older than he was. 

It makes him think back to that nasty night, where his gut tightens and the burning shame it brings, he doesn't want to know how someone would have handle it if he were to jump that night. And how spiderman took him to a station and the police helped bit, he got up on his knees and looked up and maybe he saw a flash of color that reminded his soul to get up, and rise. 

But when the other earthquakes are happening, a terror grips at his soul because the city is in danger, and no reassurances from the police would stop the panic, as he watches the city be in chaos and confusion as the very fabric of their world starts to shift and break.

But colors are never far, and phones are everywhere. Someone says its a ghost, others are saying its merely people playing with the city's heart. 

Because he was at the cermony, and got flowers and mourned a hero he never really knew. But whatever ghosts might have been, they're all gone, but one. A new spiderman, and maybe New York is witnessing the birth of a new hero. ) 

But michael thinks back at that night, and if this hero is anything like 26-year-old Peter parker, just a slim chance, then he thinks that New York will be shaky, but it'll stand on its feet just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, i didn't intend on making this one depressing, but it happens.
> 
> Idk, but anywho, I did try to write more of a story with actual spoken words and I don't know how I feel about yet.


	3. Mary Jane, a tale of sadness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, she thinks of ghosts.

Maybe, if the cameras leave her, she will be fine.

The media is a old dog, scrapping for bones with flesh still stubbornly sticking to it, or sniffing out the lastest story with a inmountable force. Some way or another the story would break out, and its not before two hours later when the world learns a secret meant for _no one._

It almost feels like a betrayal, Jane thinks. 

She wonders in secret, in her mind, just how rotten Peter would feel seeing his face plastered through the pixels and lenses of phones and billboards. 

She remembers the night he told her, the sky eyes looking petrified, and lost, so confused, when he let the mask fall, and her soul fell for him. How only two people in the world, would ever know Peter Parker was Spiderman. A sworn secrecy, not even the soil in the earth would hear those words fall from her tongue. 

She remembers the bruises and the cuts, the bleeding and swearing as she dabs alcohol with a cotton ball, but they made it work, because in the end of the day, all said and done, she would never blame him. He is a soul made of gold, and a heart that sometimes its too big for his chest and it would burst out and spill in the busy sidewalks of New york for people to walk over.

Sometimes when he doesn't come home, when its past midnight, she is suck into a vertext and is already making plans in head of his death and when he would stumble in and mumbles apologizes after apologizes for messing up the carpet again with his bleeding.

He fights for her heart, he tells her, because you are worth every bruise.

 

And what the hell do you say to that? A man who smiles sheepishly, and stumbles with his own feet, and never complains when she unbearable with her period, because he's _so in love --_

Of course, she would fall. Like a fairytale knight, watching over her and the city, for their future with a blonde hair that catches the sun, and his eyes that sparkles in front of her, what is she suppose to do?

 So she stands her ground against the media, she doesn't blame them, because every person that Peter saved needs to know, but she's _angry_.

Molted, and nasty anger, with too many sharp teeth, and snarls at anything too close. 

Behind her eyes are throbbing and hurting, and her bones ache, because when she is giving her speech, all those red and white masks are staring at her, and Peter is judging through them.

(And her eyes will glide through them carefully, but gloss over them, and once she caught the eyes behind one cheaply bought, cut through them, that were wide and hopeful, hanging to evey word ---)

She is no hero, no avenging angel, but she will be damned to hell if someone tries to tarnish her husband's work. When all is said and done, she will sit down for the first time, since being picked up and thrown around like stuck in a tornado, is when Peter visits her.

Not dead and broken, too pale, and the bones visible under the layer of skin, and his eyes too wide and murky --

He is whole, and the sun is catching his hair again, if playing braids with it, and his teeth are white and not broken, and he laughs telling her he is fine and there's nothing to worry about.

Sometimes, she thinks of ghosts.

Or, maybe the ghosts think of her.

Because when she's invited, more peer pressure like a hot pot, she sits down and drowns out the outer noise and she uses the excuse of bread to leave behind the judging stares following behind her back.

_She's the widow of Spiderman. Have you not heard? I feel sorry for her. Too young._

And a man with Peter's voice answers her back. He is sorry and its triggers her memory of him coming home one night and he's brusied like always and bleeding a tad, and she snaps and cries and worries, but he holds her and his words are wet and _so sorry i did this, im sorry jane, please stop crying, im sorry._

And she's snapped back when another mask talks back, apologizing, and telling her she'll be getting more bread, and she looks behind her and sees the table is not quite a table and all the mask are different.

And the mask in front of her is almost her husbands, but the edges aren't as sharp and it looks like it was stitched back together more times than one, but are still together. 

She leaves and wonders if her husband is haunting her.

Aunt May is the one that tells her.

They trust each other, and theres a bond that's special and unique that describes the loss and the knowledge of _knowing_.

A criminal is behind bars was also behind the world almost ending, how worlds almost collided and the colors blended and warped around each other for a misguided thoughts of others. How there's a peter with a jane out there, and there's always a spiderman not too far.  Like a yin and yang.

Its impossible and too omnipotent and unimaginable, and it scares her a bit, but its almost the definition of deja vu, because those are the thoughts when Peter showed her his bare face, open chest and all of him spilled in front of her.

And when she finally meets the other spiderman (never her own) he is more arms and his voice is too high and it cracks and stumbles out words, like her peter when they first met, and his shoes are untied.

She smiles softly, her eyes are screaming and scratchy, because yes, of course Peter would fall for this kid. 

She sticks out her hand, "Hello there, Spider-Man. Its nice to finally meet you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to write this Forever™. 
> 
> Anyway, I don't see too much of her here as I wanted, so yeah. Enjoy.


	4. Miles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes being a child superhero is tough.

 

Miles Morales wakes up, and his breath chokes tight and small before it ever leaves his throat.

There's a dead spider in his window. And it has those _eyes,_ staring at him in the darkness just so wide and bright, and then so reassuring to his fears, and so desperate and determine and blue, blue, and _blue_.

 He wakes up and feels the out of line tempo of his heart, and he can feel his ribs and chest ache at the phantom fists just diving with brute force, cracking and tearing, and dying --

 And sometimes he wants to feel guilty for not having nightmares of his uncle. 

(Because his uncle is fun music, with tough knuckles and a smile to swoon, and he is trying to kill his blood, and everything is going _wrong_ \-- )

And when it gets to him, the nightmares with soft claws, he feels guilty for putting Ganke through it and walks home.

His mom is passion work, her mouth and language sometimes too colorful for the concrete english, and his fondness moments is when they are dancing in the kitchen, a warmth over the house as the music rang king.

 He wants to bake in that warmth, that little single moment where the world is too far away and the one thing in his life matters is sneaking some food into his mouth faster than his mom can catch him.

 

His face is everywhere. A haunting image of a smiling man, and sometimes if they are lucky they show a all body shot baking in the soft sunlight. And _smiling_ \-- It’s on billboards and posters and signs. Its printed behind phones, and sad music haunts wherever the picture goes.

 _Spiderman,_ everyone whispers,  _Peter Parker._

Everyone comes forward, everyone has a story to say. This was a hero, blond hair and blue eyes filled with life, and now he is dead and gone. Spiderman is peter parker, because thats logical and thats the way of life for the past ten years. Suddenly someone disturbed that and he is dead.

Everyone whispers, of course they do,  _Ten years._

Some whisper that he was a menace. Others cry and move on, that they are late for work others whispers,  _Twenty six years old, too young, too brave._

 

Theres a woman on tv, one rare night when he is on his dorm and the tv that he and Ganke had finally scrapped enough money for, and she was describing the one and only time she had meet spiderman.

" tell me, it must have been frightening, how did you react? " she is young, genius someone says, and she looks so nostalgic thinking of a far away place, backwards in time.

She shuffles, her fingers twisting and looping around her shirt, " to be honest, it wasn't that scary " she huffs and continues.

" yeah, it's scary for a five year old, but i remember 'gosh jolly, I'm flying!' Spiderman saved my life, and I wasn't even paying attention to that. " 

 She smiles bitterly, and the crowd behind the camares are memorize.

 " tell me, what do you think of this new spiderman? "

 This is the tea, everyone is shouting their opinions, their stories to whoever is willing to listen, ready to attack or defend, and Miles wants to curl up and fight the pressure in his chest until it goes away. Because he's _trying_ \-- 

"Wel. . . I wasn't really ready to see another spiderman. I thought there was only one and thats that, but . .. he saved New York, just like Peter parker. 

 But it may not be Peter Parker, but he's the best we got, i guess. "

 Spiderman, that man with gold hair and blue eyes, staring down at him from everywhere and anywhere, staring down at him from all these stories being told from everyone. Not to sentece, but to judge and see his weight of worth, because through whatever story, spiderman shines through.

  _This is my legacy. What is yours?_

 

 

When peter b. parker said that its all a leap of faith, he said it with a chest full of something. With his eyes earnest and wide, and Miles wishes it were that simple.

But it’s not, it’s not, because when Miles leaps the glass shatters, like little commets flaring and catching the light of New York below before being abruptly cut out, and he falls and he is going  _down, down, down._

 Its more than that because he's flailing, and trying to bring his arms to his sides, and he's _soaring_.

 

" hey man, don't worry, this one is for free." The man at the hot dog stand is young, but his eyes tell him another story, and he is grinning with white teeth that are a bit lopsided. 

 He simply hands him one and tells him not to worry, and Miles is already trying to find a way to repay him.

" did you know him? Peter parker I mean." That stills his hands, did you know him? No, he did not know is he likes his sandwich with Nacy's special sauce, or if he likes to play poker or Uno, because he has been _too young_ \--

"Yeah, briefly. Just before he--" Miles makes some movement with his hands that he hopes will translate whatever is stuck in his throat. 

 But the man simply nods, not trying to claw his way to his chest and demand to see the secrets he stores there. But the that one day, a lifetime ago, climbed those stairs, and climbed a rusty fence looks at New York's new hero, and prays for his soul.

"Do him justice." 

 

And it’s weird. It’s  _weird,_ because Miles knows these villains, watching behind a tv screen, and now he is the one with bruises, and they kept hitting him, and he kept getting up, and he reliaze how he knows them like they were famous people and natural disasters.

_He's the best we got._

Has been one of the people cheering Spiderman on as he attacked and swung around and shouted quips. Shouting to get back up, without knowing the throbbing pain at his foot, or the ache on his elbow, and now--

suddenly  _he’s_ the one swinging and kicking the one trying to stop the outright chaos and the danger and the destruction, to foil the evil plan. Just how _weird_.

_You're the best of us man._

(He thinks, maybe, that his bad guys have an unfair advantage on him, here these guys are  _years a_ head and Miles is running and hiding and attacking, trying to keep up and not  _die.)_

 And sometimes he gets up and rolls away, and his mom is telling him _our family doesn't run away_. And he gets up and gets up again. And again, even with his failing bones. And he fights.

Do him justice.

How? He wants to rage and scream and demand how he, just too new and green he is to the whole superhero game. Because he's always running, and fighting, and how is he suppose to do justice to such a omminent force he is trying to catch up, and swinging faster, _faster, c'mon man where's your rhythm?_

He remembers Gwen and Peter B. and yeah, he's new but that's okay, because he even has Noir and Ham, and Penni. 

He prays that's enough.

God, he hopes that's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, finally writing Miles.
> 
> Seeing this as the final chapter, I was thinking of writing a series where I could just dump out all of my ideas.

**Author's Note:**

> Woops, my hand slipped.


End file.
